I was ninety-eight yards closer to the woman on the bench.

She stared on. Most people ask how I had gotten the scar. I didn’t want her to. I didn’t want to talk about bombs. Not with her.

I said, ‘Show me one hand.’

She asked, ‘Why?’

‘You don’t need two in there.’

‘Then what good can it do you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. I had no real idea what I was doing. I’m not a hostage negotiator. I was just talking for the sake of it. Which is uncharacteristic. Mostly I ‘in a very silent person.

It would be statistically very unlikely for me to die halfway through a sentence.

Maybe that’s why I was talking.

The woman moved her hands. I saw her take a solo grip inside her bag with her right and she brought her left out slowly. Small, pale, faintly ridged with veins and tendons. Middle-aged skin. Plain nails, trimmed short. No rings. Not married, not engaged to be. She turned her hand over, to show me the other side. Empty palm, red because she was hot.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

She laid her hand palm-down on the seat next to her and left it there, like it was nothing to do with the rest of her. Which it wasn’t, at that point. The train stopped in the darkness. I lowered my hands. The hem of my shirt fell back into place.

I said, ‘Now show me what’s in the bag.’

‘Why?’

‘I just want to see it. Whatever it is.’

She didn’t reply.

She didn’t move.

I said, ‘I won’t try to take it away from you. I promise. I just want to see it. I’m sure you can understand that.’

The train moved on again. Slow acceleration, no jerk, low speed. A gentle cruise into the station. A slow roll. Maybe two hundred yards, I thought.